


The One's For Use, The Other Useth It.

by Borusa



Category: Othello - Shakespeare
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, F/M, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/pseuds/Borusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinky Iago/Emilia BDSM fic with some other stuff thrown in. Questionable consent content due to manipulation and blackmail-y power games.</p><p>Set somewhere immediately after the end of Act III, Scene 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One's For Use, The Other Useth It.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinkatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/gifts).



 

He waited, sitting calmly and still in his room. It was perhaps his primary skill, the patience to allow all his plots to play out. To allow the invisible line he had fastened around her throat to draw her to him. Slowly, so gently that she had not felt the tug until it was too late to break away, threads twining with threads, schemes with schemes, until she had no choices left.

The door opened, and she stepped into the room, her head bowed, her blonde hair cascading around her face, not quite managing to obscure the shame that was written upon it in virulent scarlet. She paused, unsure of what was expected of her.

“Can I help you?” he asked, without inflection, angling his head. Not too inviting, not too friendly. There was no escape for her now, and he played the line like a skilled fisherman.

Her mouth opened and closed, as the words refused to come. He let the pressure of silence build.

“My husband...” she said, her voice trailing off.

“Your husband has rejected you, for your infidelity. Your reputation is lost.” He used his voice like a whip, each stroke landing, each blow registering on her face, her eyes wide in terror. And then he showed her the bait. “But I can help you. I can see that you are comfortable. Give you back your life. And all you have to do...”

“What?” In her eyes, hope. The hope that would bring her to the hook.

“All you have to do is put yourself in my hands.” Such a little thing, so casually spoken. “Close the door.” She obeyed, not realising that each moment of obedience sank the hook deeper into her. One barb at a time. She still had not brought herself to look at him, but all of her attention was on him. “Come here.” He indicated the space just in front of him, and watched as she made the slow passage across the floor.

Now. Now was the time to reveal how caught she was. “Take off your dress.”

She baulked, her head rising, her eyes wide with shock, finally staring at his face. He watched her, knowing that she would comply, letting her see that certainty for herself. “Now, girl. Or shall I let your husband know where you are?” Her hands rose, wavering in the air, and then settled on the shoulders of her dress, gripping the fabric as if they were moving against her will. She pulled the dress down, baring her shoulders, freeing her breasts, revealing her midriff... and more, until the material settled into a pool around her feet. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and then, at his raised eyebrow, uncrossed them.

“And now, kneel,” he said, “and kiss my foot.” He knew that he was pushing her, but each action sank her deeper and deeper. He watched her kneel, marvelling at her quivering grace, and then, an inch at a time, her head bowed and her lips touched against his dusty boot. He reached down, his hand on the back of her neck, at once reassuring and violating, and pressed her face against the grimy leather.

* * *

 

Iago felt the clench and release, his back arching in his seat, the pleasure pulsing down his cock and spurting into the waiting cloth. Once, twice, three times, he spat his seed out, the image of Desdemona bent in obeisance before him fixed firmly in his mind. Once it was done, he stood, fastening his breeches, still holding the soiled silk in his hand.

“Wife!” he called. “Wife!”

“Yes, my lord,” Emilia entered, her gaze fixed on his feet. He looked her up and down, but, to his irritation, could find no fault in her appearance or posture.

“This handkerchief you stole for me has become stained. Launder it, and then bring it back to me.”

Her mouth opened in disbelief, and an idea came to him. “Oh, and keep your hands clasped behind your back until you reach the kitchen.” The realisation struck her, and she looked up at him with horror. Horror that mixed immediately with a rising excitement. It was a powerful brew, and one that made her such an excellent chattel. He wadded up the handkerchief and pushed it into her mouth, exulting as a humiliated tear ran from the corner of her eye. “Dismissed,” he said, curtly, turning away without waiting to see if she complied.

He caught his own gaze in the mirror, and smiled at his reflection. “One by one,” he said. “One by one they will come to me, and recognise me as their lord. They will raise me up as their leader and worship me. And I will seize all the things should have been mine by right and merit. I shall be General, and Desdemona will kneel alongside my wife and serve me in perfect obedience.”

* * *

 

In the kitchen, finally, Emilia pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and studied it. She didn't know what he intended to do with it, really. Something evil, devious and vicious, no doubt. But speculating, predicting, planning... those were not her place. She poured some water from the kettle and began to wash the fine silk carefully. When had she known about him? When had she realised what their life would be like?

At first, he had seemed debonair, charming even. If he was the one who chose where they walked out, who insisted on her calling him “my lord” from their first acquaintance, well, it was within what people would regard normal behaviour. It hadn't been long before the games started, though. Before he began to push her toward doing things she wouldn't have believed she would ever do. They had not even been officially engaged before she first knelt before him, first felt his hand grip her hair so hard that it pulled painfully at the roots, first felt him force her mouth onto his cock. That was the moment she knew. That was the moment she felt the heat rise within her, fuelled by her humiliation and driving her to an ecstatic height that she had never imagined existed.

Unbidden, her hand slid between her legs, pressing the skirt of her dress against her. That first time, in the garden of her father's house, between the rhododendron and the hydrangea, was when she came face to face with the realisation of what she was, and what her lord would do to her.

“What _are_ you doing?” his voice came from behind her. She hadn't heard the door, or his tread. He walked the house like a ghost, unseen, unheard, arriving without warning at the least opportune moments. She spun to face him and dropped to her knees, bending forwards to press her forehead against the floor. There were no words she could offer to placate him, no pleading that would make any difference. And, to her regret, there was no desire within her to avoid the punishment, just a rising lust for his touch.

“Strip and follow,” he commanded. With practised ease, she stood and stepped out of her dress, leaving her girdle in place. It didn't count as clothing, as far as he was concerned, just a part of her skin. A part of her skin that was always tightening, month on month, year on year, measured weekly with a tape that was kept hanging above her bed, one of a number of reminders of his absolute control over her. Of course, she was wearing no other undergarments. There was never an obstruction to her availability to him. He stepped towards the door, and she made to follow, only for him to turn back and glare at her. “On your knees. You don't have the right to walk.”

She followed him through the house, crawling at his heel, knowing that there was a chance that they would be discovered, or seen through one of the windows that were left open in a futile attempt to mitigate Cyprus' summer heat. The stone floor was cool against her knees and palms, spots of cold that only highlighted the heat of the blush on her face, and that raging between her legs.

As she knew he would, he led her to the basement, guiding her down the stairs with his hand looped into her hair, serving as a makeshift leash, and then up onto the table that he had installed there, the rough wood coarse beneath her.

“When are you allowed to play with yourself?” he asked, with the deceptive mildness she had learned to distrust.

“Only when you command, my lord.”

“Is there any way that “Launder this handkerchief” sounds like “Frig yourself to climax”?”

Her face burned. She hated losing, even if the games were rigged against her, and her lack of self-control had cost her this round. “No, my lord.”

“Maybe I should have you sewn up,” he said. “You have other holes that I can use, if I can bring myself to touch you.”

Emilia shivered at the thought, though she knew it was an idle threat. He liked fucking her too much to actually carry it out. She felt the touch of rope on her arm, a relatively smooth, narrow cord, and looked down to see him looping it around, wrapping her right wrist, and then moving on to her left, with a new length. It always looked pretty, and in a curious way made her feel somehow secure, and it was as close as he ever got to holding her. Once her left wrist was adorned, he tied her ankles together. She waited, patiently, letting him set a leisurely pace. He pushed a low stool underneath her belly, and then tightened the ropes, pulling her down onto the stool, her arms stretching forward and her feet back, until she was no longer supporting her own weight, and then he stood back. She glanced up at him for a moment, and then back down at the table surface beneath her. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but nor was she in any imminent danger of cramping. Her breathing slowed. Whatever was going to happen now was out of her control. And completely within his.

“What happens when you’re disobedient?” he asked.

“I am punished, my lord,” she said.

“And is being beaten punishment?”

“No, my lord. It is just something you do to remind me of my place.” Her place. Kneeling at his feet. Bound and displayed for his pleasure. She wriggled on the stool, trying to get the point of pressure a little further down her body, but the ropes were taut enough not to give her the freedom to do it.

“When we are done with this, you will go to Desdemona. And you will keep her company, and watch for me on her and her jealous husband.”

That was a surprise. “Jealous, my lord?”

His answer imprinted itself on her bottom, hard and stinging, the sharp crack echoing off the walls. The sharp pain faded quickly into a duller ache and a rising warmth. The paddle, then. Not her favourite implement – she found the cane to be both more of a challenge and to bring more of a high, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered that much to him. He paddled her until he grew bored of it, varying the tempo, varying the power, never letting her settle entirely, till she reached a point where her world was only heat and pain and the gaps between blows, was stolen breaths and cries that she could hear echoing off the walls and only weakly identify as her own.

And then he left her, unbinding her and leaving her kneeling in the corner of the room, her nose pressed into it, her bottom pushed out so that anyone, literally anyone, who passed could see her shame written in clearly in the bruises and welts she was displaying so proudly.

* * *

Some hours later, after she had served her time in the corner, and gone to speak to Desdemona, she returned to find him sitting on a little stool outside the kennel, playing with the dog.

"Why must I hide in your dog house, Iago?" whined Roderigo, trying to push his head out past the bars that made up the enclosure in front of the little hut.

"I have told you many a time, pup," Iago said, not even looking at Emilia as she curtseyed, approached, and curtseyed again, before finally kneeling before him, her palms upturned on her knees, her head bowed exactly to the angle he specified. He never looked, but she knew that if she missed out one step, one gesture, if she in any way did not perform according to his specification, he would notice in an instant. "We cannot risk others knowing that you hide from Othello here. So do not speak. You can whine and bark all you like, though, and if my plan goes true, you shall have your Desdemona, and have her more completely than you could possibly imagine."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Roderigo's shoulders slump, exactly at the moment that hope returned to his face. He opened his mouth, and gave an excited barking noise. That was Iago's way, to use your hope against you, to use your best qualities to bind you to his worst. A thousand such moments bound her to him, bound her personality, her identity, her very soul to his will, shaping her into a creature entirely of his making.

"And...?" he asked her, pushing his boot out towards her. She bent her head, pressing her lips against the muddy leather, and remained curled over it while she reported.

"My lord," she said, "your abject wife reports that Desdemona would like to visit Lieutenant Cassio on the morrow, and has desired that your wife accompany her."

"Good," Iago said, after a moment's thought. "Do that." He snapped his fingers, and she knelt up. "Prepare my meal, and feed the dog. You have done well, and so you may eat with me tonight, and share my bed."

Emilia's heart skipped a beat. Iago never slept well. To share a bed with him was to experience a night of partial wakening, partial sleep, alert to the need to instantly respond to his desires with her lips, with her cunt, or to present her bottom or her breasts for him to beat. And to eat with him... either she would be on her knees, her face pressed into a bowl just as the unfortunate Roderigo was made to eat, or she would be bound in a chair, with him choosing which mouthful she would eat next, putting the morsel together and then presenting it to her mouth. Either way, it would be embarrassing, shameful... and every inch of her wanted it with a need and desperation she had no way to control. Despite everything that he put her through, his approval and his rewards made her heart soar, and her body ache for him.

* * *

 

In his chamber, Iago once more sat, his manhood pulsing in his hand.

"And in his jealousy, he shall cast her from him, and I shall offer her protection and support. And at first she will baulk at my methods of concealment, but some time in the kennel with the puppy should make her realise her status, and her lack of choices. And then... then she will be mine completely. And I shall lie abed with Desdemona and Emilia bound together, face to face, teat to teat, thigh to sex and sex to thigh, and I shall beat them so that they squirm and wriggle against each other, all unwillingly brought to shameful climax..."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to S and C for beta-reading. Apologies (kind of) to everyone for the bit with the handkerchief.


End file.
